The two of them spent the entire night on surveillance. They watched as the ronin headed to a nightclub called "Dream Night" and called for a hostess named Murata Yuko. Every single scene that unfolded was seared into their minds.
It wasn't until past midnight that Tatsuma and Minato finally ended their watch. As Yusuke and his men stumbled out, leaning against the walls for support, Tatsuma turned to Minato.
"I'll tail them and keep searching for a lead on Naka's location," Tatsuma whispered. "You follow Murata Yuko. Make sure she doesn't find out about her brother and do something that compromises our operation against Naka and his syndicate. If necessary... restrict her movements. Once I have solid intel, I'll find you."
Minato nodded, his expression void of emotion. He no longer knew which feeling he should be harboring toward this mission or its targets.
In just a few short hours, he had witnessed ronin—emboldened by the backing of a rogue ninja—murder a teenage boy, and then, instead of fleeing, they had come here... to torment the boy's older sister.
If Tatsuma hadn't held him back, and if he hadn't promised not to be impulsive, Minato would have surrendered to the urge to forget his duties as a ninja and transform into a reaping specter a dozen times over.
He was currently enveloped in a state of numb, icy calm. He understood the subtext of Tatsuma's blunt orders. Tatsuma's words were harsh, but his intent was clear:
He wanted Minato to protect Murata Yuko.
Tatsuma vanished first, shadowing the drunken ronin as they staggered away. Minato remained in the shadows, waiting for Yuko to emerge.
It took a while longer before Yuko appeared, her gait unsteady as she walked back to her home. There, she found the cold corpse of her brother and the suicide note he had written before leaving the previous day.
Thud.
Yuko collapsed against the door she had just opened. In the dead of night, the sound was jarringly loud. A few nearby houses flickered to life as lights were turned on.
But for some reason, not a single neighbor stepped out into the midnight air. Even those who had turned on their lights quickly extinguished them, retreating back into the safety of the dark.
In the quiet of the night, everything felt frigid.
After sitting paralyzed on the floor for what felt like an eternity, Yuko scrambled toward Raku's side. She touched his cold skin and the dried blood that flaked off in dark patches at the slightest brush. Her tears finally broke through, unrestrained.
She saw the suicide note nearby—it had been pulled out, unfolded, and tossed aside, marked by a dirty footprint. Yuko's sobbing gradually quieted, but the tears only flowed faster.
As she cradled Raku's body, she felt something hidden in his clothes. With trembling fingers, she reached in and pulled out a short blade wrapped in scraps of cloth. It didn't even have a sheath.
No, calling it a short blade was too generous; it was merely a narrow strip of iron ground to a sharp edge. Clutching the weapon—one that had never tasted blood yet was already stained with it—Yuko looked into her brother's unseeing eyes and gritted her teeth.
Before the sun could rise, Yuko, her eyes dry and swollen, took the blade Raku had carried. She hoisted his body onto her back and, stumbling with every step, began to walk toward the village outskirts.
At the cemetery where it had happened, Yuko saw the blackened bloodstains on the frost-covered grass. Understanding dawned on her. She began to dig a small pit by hand.
In the early spring graveyard, the withered field was covered in frost and shards of ice. Yuko's hands were sliced open repeatedly as she clawed at the frozen soil. Fresh blood mingled with the dark, dried stains on the earth.
After laying Raku in the shallow grave, an exhausted Yuko leaned against a headstone, whispering hoarsely, "Papa... Mama... Raku-kun has gone to find you. I... I'm the only one left."
Not far away, Minato closed his eyes, unable to watch any longer.
After a long period of rest, Yuko knelt by the pit once more. Handful by handful, she covered her brother with soil mixed with blood, frost, and dew.
Once the task was finished, she staggered back into the village. By the time she reached her house, she could no longer maintain an upright posture. She managed to crawl into her room before collapsing into unconsciousness on the floor.
Minato, still hiding his presence, finally couldn't help himself. He stepped into the room, lifted Yuko onto the bed, and pulled a thin blanket over her. Then, he vanished without a trace.
Over the next three days, Yuko did not return to the nightclub. People came to check on her, but she turned them away with a claim of illness.
She truly did need the rest. Though the wounds on her hands had scabbed over, they were marked by a dense network of reddish-brown scars. The slightest movement would cause the newly healed skin to crack and bleed again.
Tatsuma wasn't idle during those days. By tailing Yusuke and his crew, he finally caught sight of Naka Noboru. He also learned that on the 10th of every month, Naka personally went to "Dream Night"—the club where Yuko worked—to collect "protection money."
The 10th... was tomorrow. Tatsuma regrouped with Minato, and they finalized their plan to capture Naka during the collection.
But they weren't the only ones who knew the schedule. Yuko knew it as well. On the afternoon of the 10th, ignoring her unhealed wounds, she began to bathe and prepare herself.
Watching her from a distance, the boys realized what she intended to do. Minato frowned. "Should we stop her? If she goes there, she might... compromise the mission."
Tatsuma thought for a moment before shaking his head. "No. If we just let her run wild, she might interfere, but with a little guidance, she could actually be an asset."
"But tonight's operation will be dangerous. She's just a girl—"
Tatsuma cut him off. "She needs to be part of the vengeance personally. If we stop her, that regret will haunt her for the rest of her life."
As evening fell, Yuko dressed in her finest clothes, applied her makeup, and headed to the nightclub. Hidden within her attire was the sharpened strip of iron.
At the same time, a white-haired youth with a natural perm and a plain-looking blond youth, both dressed in casual yukatas, strolled aimlessly toward the entrance of the club.
Neither of them noticed that in the hot spring inn across from the nightclub, Jiraiya was sipping sake and watching them.
"Good luck, Tatsuma, Minato," Jiraiya muttered. "But honestly... heading into a hostess club with no money in your pockets? You guys are asking for a beating."
Jiraiya subconsciously rubbed his ribs. The phantom pain of old injuries from his younger days seemed to flare up. He suddenly felt a perverse sense of curiosity, wondering if Minato and Tatsuma were about to learn that same hard lesson.